“It is here the most pain is now,” said he, placing his palm on his temple,—“here, and inside my head.”
“I wish I could talk to that servant of yours; he don't seem a very bright sort of creetur, but I could make him of use.” With this muttered remark, Quackinboss walked back into the sitting-room, where Layton's man was now extinguishing the lights and the fire. “You have to keep that fire in, I say—fire—great fire—hot water. Understand me?”
“'Strissimo! si,” said the Tuscan, bowing courteously.
“Well, then, do you fetch some lemons—lemons. You know lemons, don't you?”
A shrug was the unhappy reply.
“Lemong—lemong! You know them?”
“Limoni! oh si.” And he made the sign of squeezing them; and then, hastening out of the room, he speedily reappeared with lemons and other necessaries to concoct a drink.
“That's it,—bravo, that's it! Brew it right hot, my worthy fellow,” said Quackinboss, with a gesture that implied the water was to be boiled immediately. He now returned to Layton, whom he found sitting up in the bed, talking rapidly to himself, but with all the distinctness of one perfectly collected.
“By Marseilles I could reach Paris on Tuesday night, and London on Wednesday. Isn't there a daily packet for Genoa?” asked he, as Quackinboss entered.
“Well, I guess there's more than 's good of 'em,” drawled out the other; “ill-found, ill-manned, dirty craft as ever I put foot in!”